A site about Holidays In Estartit Spain. Why a post called Estartit My Arse? Well, for those of you outside the UK it’s not easy to explain. However if you read on it will become clear.
On the second day of my last holiday in Estartit Spain, I was sitting in the bar at the Festamar, drinking a cold San Miguel, when a man tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and was confronted by a Jim Royal look-alike (For those of you outside the UK, Jim Royal is character from a comedy show). I knew he wasn't on a walking holiday in Spain, that was for sure.
This bearded, pot bellied, man that I had never met before, started to moan. Watching him standing there in his skin tight Speedos and grey vest (which was originally white, complete with tomato and barbeque sauce stains) complain to anyone who would listen, gave me a great insight into why the English abroad have such a bad reputation.
The poor barman, seeing possible trouble, came over and tried to plicate him. He had no chance. Jim was having none of it. He wanted the manager. Curiosity got the better of me, so when the bar man left to get his boss, I had to ask.
“What’s the problem?” (Oh God, Why did I ask).
“I’ll tell you what the problem is pal. This place doesn’t sell English beer. I haven’t had a decent cup of tea since I arrived, and don’t even get me started on their so called English breakfast”
I thought about nodding in agreement so he would just go away, but his whole attitude annoyed me. “But this is Spain” I said. Somehow thinking that my statement would make him realise where he was. No such luck!
He prepared for the next part of his speech by putting his hand down his Speedos and re-arranging his bits.
“Well, I’m English. My family is English. Everyone here is English. They should realise that, and make sure they have English beer and food, not all that Spanish rubbish. As for the staff, they’re all Spanish. Spanish! How are you meant to understand them?"
I was about to tell him Spain was the ideal place for Spanish people to work, when the manager appeared. Now, when I tell you Jim did not pause for breath for the next ten minutes, its no exaggeration. He complained about Spain. He complained about Estartit. He complained about the Festamar Apartments. He even complained about chips! I’m not joking. The lack of chips (Fries) had apparently ruined his holiday.
The manager just stood there smiling, waiting for him to finish. Was Mr Royal about to finish? No way. He was just building up to his climax. Once again he returned his hand to his Speedos, this time (luckily) he pulled out a ticket to the weekly barbecue.
“See this”. He said, thrusting the ticket under the retreating managers nose. “This cost me fifteen euros. Fifteen euros, and no chips? Rice and Salad, who wants that with a barbecue? I’m not happy, so what are you going to do about it?”
I think the manager was going to stand his corner until Jim tried to shove the ticket into his hand. The manager recoiled in horror, remembering where the ticket had been retrieved from. Taking his wallet out, he refunded the fifteen euros.
Jim turned to me, and with air of triumph and said. “That’s how you treat these people….Estartit My Arse!”
Looking at the manager I just shook my head and went back to my beer, feeling like I should apologise on behalf of the whole English nation.
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